Regressive Ad Campaign:Part 11



By Sage Ann

This story is set in the incredible world created by AlteredStates14. Her universe is brought to life not through traditional written narratives, but through a powerful collection of images—advertisements, media articles, and other visual artifacts—that vividly capture everyday life in her setting.
All images associated with this story are her original work. Please consider supporting her so we can continue to explore and enjoy more of this fascinating world.
You can find her work here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/alteredstates14
Another author has also written a story based in this universe from a different perspective. You can find it here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/fatherfish/art/Pampers-and-Propaganda-1028729633


The week unfolded in a series of small surrenders. On Monday morning, Kalie stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection—a seventeen-year-old girl in a pull-up, trying to reconcile this new reality with the person she'd been just days before. She still made the effort then, dutifully using the toilet before pulling the unused protection back into place. By Monday afternoon, she'd used her pull-up once—just once—when the line for the bathroom at lunch had seemed interminable. A practical decision, she told herself. Nothing more.
Tuesday brought a shift so subtle she almost didn't notice. The slight pressure in her bladder during history class became a warm release without conscious thought—her body making the decision before her mind could intervene. She'd frozen mid-note, pen hovering above paper, as the pull-up expanded gently between her legs. No one noticed. The world continued turning. And something inside Kalie quietly recalibrated.
By Wednesday morning, she no longer automatically headed for the toilet upon waking. Instead, she relieved herself in the pull-up she'd worn overnight—already wet from sleep—before peeling it off for her shower. The new daytime one went on without question, an accepted part of her routine now, like brushing her teeth or combing her hair.
The school bathrooms, once urgently mapped in her mind, faded into the background of her awareness. She passed them without that nervous calculation of time and need. Once, catching herself unconsciously wetting her pull-up while standing at her locker, she felt a fleeting moment of alarm—not at the act itself, but at how natural it had become.
"Are you even trying anymore?" she whispered to her reflection Wednesday night, changing into her third pull-up of the day. Her reflection offered no answer, just the image of a girl with hazel eyes and a mouth twisted into something between resignation and relief.
Thursday arrived with the understanding that she had crossed some invisible threshold. She used the pull-up more often than not now, the toilet becoming the exception rather than the rule. Each time grew easier, more automatic, until the distinction between "holding it" and "letting go" blurred into meaninglessness. Her body seemed to have accepted this new reality with alarming speed, as if it had been waiting for permission all along.
Meanwhile, Mary's journey took a different path. While Kalie's days became a seamless continuation of her nights—one pull-up after another, wet and replaced, wet and replaced—Mary maintained her daytime continence with apparent ease. Only at night did she regress completely, her overnight protection growing thicker and more substantial as the week progressed.
"These are much better," Mary declared on Thursday evening, examining the overnight diapers their mother had purchased—thick, crinkly things with cartoon characters dancing across the waistband, tapes rather than elastic at the sides. She wore a bright blue t-shirt with a unicorn on the front, her hair pulled into a messy bun, looking younger than her fifteen years. "The other ones kept leaking."
Kalie watched her sister's casual acceptance with a mixture of envy and bewilderment. Mary had compartmentalized perfectly—daytime teenager, nighttime toddler—while Kalie found herself sliding steadily toward the latter in all aspects of her life.
Friday morning brought the strangest sight yet. Kalie woke early, the gray dawn light filtering through her curtains, and heard soft voices from her sister's room. She padded to the door, still half-asleep, and peered through the crack.
Their mother sat on the edge of Mary's bed, murmuring gentle encouragements as she untaped the sides of a clearly soaked overnight diaper. Mary lay back, arms stretched overhead in sleepy compliance, her face peaceful as their mother lifted her hips and slid the wet diaper away. There was something ritualistic about it—the wipes, the cream, the fresh diaper unfolded and positioned, the careful securing of tapes.
"There we go, all clean," their mother cooed, patting the front of the fresh diaper with unmistakable affection.
Mary smiled up at her, a drowsy, contented expression that made her look five instead of fifteen. "Thanks, Mom," she mumbled, making no move to get up or take over any part of this intimate process.
Kalie backed away from the door, a strange tightness in her chest. The scene had been so tender, so... loving. Not embarrassing or shameful, but almost sacred in its quiet intimacy. She returned to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, aware of her own wet pull-up cooling against her skin. Would her mother change her too, if she asked? The thought brought heat to her cheeks, not entirely from embarrassment.
By Friday evening, Kalie realized she had used an actual toilet exactly twice that day—both times for bowel movements, the one function she couldn't imagine relegating to her pull-ups. Everything else happened in the protection that now felt as much a part of her as her own skin. She changed herself after school, after dinner, before bed—a routine that had established itself with unsettling speed.
The weekend arrived, and with it, a strange new normal. Mary wore her regular underwear during the day, changing into her thick overnight diapers only at bedtime. She seemed perfectly content with this arrangement, neither fighting the nighttime protection nor seeking to extend it into her days.
Kalie, in contrast, now lived in pull-ups. She changed them when they became uncomfortably heavy or when the smell threatened to become noticeable, averaging four or five a day. She no longer thought about bathrooms unless absolutely necessary. Her body had adapted with remarkable efficiency, as if reverting to a more primitive state required no effort at all.
Sunday night, as she prepared for bed, Kalie caught sight of the protest signs still visible from her window—now just three girls standing defiantly against the tide of regression that had swept through their school. She wondered if they knew they were fighting a losing battle, that the persistence of their bodies would eventually overcome the stubbornness of their minds.
She slipped under her covers, the familiar crinkle of her pull-up a comfort rather than an annoyance now. One week. It had taken just one week to rewrite seventeen years of toilet training. As she drifted toward sleep, Kalie couldn't decide what was more disturbing—how quickly she had changed, or how little she now cared that she had.